The sandy square outside the Water Gardens seemed to have transformed into a miniature Dornish martial arts exhibition.
Young nobles from House Manwoody, House Qorgyle, House Wyl, House Dalt, House Santagar, and many other Dornish vassals took turns entering the arena, holding various weapons and bearing the determination to wipe away their shame.
This was no longer a contest of single longswords. One could see the swift thrust of spears, the steady block of shields, the tricky curves of scimitars, the air-tearing crack of whips, the whistling meteor hammers, the heavy force of poleaxes, and even the dangerous close-quarters daggers—a dazzling array of weapons was displayed here, each challenge bringing a completely new combat experience.
For Euron, this was by no means a simple battle of wills, but an excellent practical training ground.
In clashes with different opponents, he hungrily absorbed experience in dealing with various weapons and fighting styles, constantly integrating and perfecting his own combat system.
His dual-wielding swordsmanship became increasingly proficient. His footwork and body movement became more agile and unpredictable when dealing with strange weapons. He even attempted to integrate his control of Conqueror's Haki into duels, using momentary bursts of aura to disturb his opponent's mind.
The most jaw-dropping moment for the audience was when faced with a heavy meteor hammer whistling toward him, he didn't dodge or evade. With a low shout, the muscles all over his body instantly tensed like iron—[Tekkai] (Iron Body)!
Euron took the blow forcefully with his chest!
"Thud!" After a dull, heavy sound like beating leather, Euron merely slid back half a step before stabilizing his figure. He gently rubbed his chest as if only lightly pushed, but his eyes flashed with the calm light of a successful test. He was personally testing the limits of his body's resistance to blows.
This daily arena had become the best furnace for tempering himself.
By the third day, the scene outside the Water Gardens had thoroughly evolved into a frenzied open competition. Euron's thirst for "Points" and combat experience grew stronger. Under constant fighting, as if some warlike blood in his body had been activated, he authorized the complete breaking of all rule restrictions.
Identity restrictions were lifted first—not just nobles, but lords from all over Dorne, sellswords, hedge knights, even bastards; anyone who believed they had some skill could step up to challenge.
Barriers of gender and age disappeared along with it—whether man or woman, young and impetuous or old and experienced, as long as they dared to step onto this sand, they could gain the opportunity to cross hands with Euron.
The scale of challenges expanded rapidly.
The original limit of ten matches a day was completely abolished, replaced by a nearly endless wheel war: ten matches in the morning, ten in the afternoon, and even another ten lined up after nightfall!
From sunrise to starry skies, the sandy square was packed tight with crowds.
The sharp ring of clashing metal, the exclamations and cheers of the audience, and the unwilling gasps of the defeated as they left the field almost never ceased. Euron stood in the center of the storm like a tireless martial addict, or a deep-sea kraken greedily absorbing combat experience, welcoming various challenges from all directions.
On the ninth night of Euron's arrival in Dorne, the sand arena outside the Water Gardens welcomed an unprecedented grand occasion.
Crowds attracted by the news squeezed into every inch of standing space, the roar of noise pressing straight toward the high walls of Sunspear.
This unprecedented fervor was all due to the earth-shattering "friendly spar" at dusk—Euron Greyjoy engaged in a hearty battle with the "Red Viper" Prince Oberyn Martell. Under the eyes of everyone, with an exquisitely brilliant strike, he actually knocked the terrifying spear from Prince Oberyn's hand to the ground!
Although neither side used their full strength, resembling more of a skill display and tacit probing between top experts, this result was enough to ignite the passion of all spectators. More critically, news had long spread: tomorrow morning, this Iron Islands young master, who had won consecutively for days and whose limelight was unmatched, would depart. Tonight was the last chance to challenge him. Once missed, who knew what year or month it would be before one could seek a match with him again.
Therefore, the surroundings of the arena were lit as bright as day by torches. Voices boiled over; everyone wanted to witness this final madness with their own eyes, or attempt to leave their name on this Dornish sand on this last night.
On the ninth and final night, Euron's attitude underwent a complete transformation.
The previous deliberate arrogance and superciliousness vanished without a trace. After cleanly defeating an opponent, he no longer left a disdainful back view. Instead, he proactively stepped forward, extended his right hand to the opponent on the ground, and pulled them up forcefully.
Moreover, Euron would always sincerely praise the opponent's shining points: "Good skill! Your footwork is as agile as a desert rattlesnake!" or "Amazing strength! That blow just now numbed my arm!" or "Incredible speed! Like a pouncing leopard!"
Until no one stepped up to challenge anymore, the arena fell into a strange silence, with only the crackling of torches and the sound of the sea breeze.
Euron took a deep breath, walked to the center of the field, faced all the surrounding Dornish warriors and nobles, and bowed deeply.
Euron raised his head, his voice clear and sincere, spreading throughout the arena. "Please forgive my rudeness and offense these past days." His gaze swept over the faces he had defeated, faces he had once deliberately angered. "I am about to go to Harrenhal to participate in the tourney, knowing well that strong enemies surround me. My posturing was not out of contempt, but from an urgent desire to accumulate more actual combat experience before the assembly, and to witness the style of true Dornish warriors here."
Euron paused, continuing with a tone carrying a trace of imperceptible fatigue and utter sincerity. "Only by behaving detestably enough could I arouse your greatest fighting spirit, allowing me to face an endless stream of challenges. This was undoubtedly a despicable exploitation, and for this, I am deeply sorry. At the same time, I am immensely grateful for everyone's tolerance and unreserved instruction these days. Every match with you has benefited me greatly."
As his words fell, silence reigned over the arena. The previously accumulated hostility and anger seemed to begin melting quietly in this sudden frankness and respect.
Sometimes, the turning of human hearts is just that wondrous. The interval between extreme loathing and heartfelt admiration might be separated only by a sentence of sincere confession. The more detestable Euron's deliberately arrogant posture was before, the more admirable his courage to admit it and apologize openly was now.
Once, how many people secretly cursed this arrogant Ironborn, wishing he would be fed to the fish soon.
But now, looking at the youth bowing in apology in the center of the field, frankly admitting he used all of them to hone himself, a complex and indescribable emotion surged in everyone's hearts—a realization of being used, yes, but even more, an awe for absolute strength, and respect for his ultimate choice of honesty.
Hatred dissipated quietly, replaced by sincere well-wishes.
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